12/24/15 Revision Update

*Note; parts of the story will be altered on account of the revision. Early followers (2013-2014) are recommended to reread (or skim) earlier chapters in order to catch any indents in how the story was formerly set up.

Maka had just turned six years old; The scent of cake, exhilaration and exhausted candle fire still lingered in the air as she lay in bed that night. Right beside the window, she couldn't help but stare up at the smiling moon, that almost seemed to congratulate her coming-of-age. That's what her father called it. Her mother insisted that it was merely practice for many birthdays to come. That she was barely an age at all.

Her contented reminiscence was interrupted by the sound of something rolling. The sound of marbles hitting the floor, perhaps- but they'd have to be fairly large marbles. She turned over and prepared to examine the noises, but her father's voice caused her steps to falter before she could even reach the floor.

There was a bit of yelling- Certain things that Maka didn't understand, among others that she only understood on account of having heard the same, dreary, concerns over and over again from mother to father and vice versa. Cheating. Some gambling, on her mother's part, but mostly cheating.

And her mother had 'had enough of it'. It didn't worry Maka, though, because she'd heard and witnessed and watched and examined the same strife over and over and over again and a resolution never really presented itself so her parents often just returned to loving and hating each other. They loved each other today, but if this fight continued, they'd hate each other tomorrow. And the day after was always a wildcard.

But when she rose to confront her parents and remind them that they weren't allowed to fight on her birthday, the door slammed shut and the house went quiet. And not the kind of quiet that followed when her parents came to one of their usual half-hearted agreements. This 'quiet' was solemn, in a way. And she was frozen for several moments, before inevitably deciding that she'd find better use of her time in bed.

She bid the moon goodnight and thanked it for a happy birthday. That was the last time she saw her mother, despite the postcards that reached her every once in awhile.

She'd gotten into the habit of asking her father where her mother went, and was always met with, more or less, the same answer; He didn't know. He didn't know where she'd gone, when she intended to come back, whether or not they were in her thoughts at all; he didn't know.

And she resented him for it. Subtly, at first, sparing her disdain in the form of evaded hugs or downcast glances. It became apparent that her father hadn't gotten the message, as noted by the women he'd bring home or the fact that their fridge was loaded with beer more-so than food and that the beer was half-empty half the time anyways. Then she sought clearer methods of protesting his new low-brow waste-of-space lifestyle, such as blatantly criticizing his useless behavior, or lack of manors, or going so far as to audibly wonder what it'd be like to have a father in the home.

Spirit had the tendency to drown her out in beer and the television, leaving her with an increasing amount of responsibility and housework as she grew older. Come fifteen years old, she'd practically fulfilled her mother's shoes, with the exception of bills and any type of intimacy concerning her father.

On one particularly snowy night, her father was late. She'd prepared dinner, picked up the house and even sorted out the beers in his absence so the clutter wasn't notable and the house was actually breathable to some extent.

She seated herself at the kitchen table with a book and a plate, prepared to set dinner in the same way her mother might have if she were still around. Her postcard was late. But so was Spirit.

Spirit being late wasn't a headliner, and she was partially under the assumption that he'd made his way to the bar and was occupying himself with women and someone else's dinner for the night. But that didn't make the absence any more tolerable- Not that she found very much pleasure in Spirit's alcoholic cologne in the first place. She just wasn't a fan of an empty house. But Maka's lack of close friends deterred her from inviting anyone over; besides, it'd be indecent for anyone else to witness what a drunken mess her father had become outside of work-hours. If he still worked anymore.

She wasn't going to press the issue yet, but she'd received a few letters in the mail referring her to late bills and unpaid electricity. For now, she waited (impatiently) for her father's humble and pathetic return. She anticipated how he'd look when he sheepishly asked her to help his undeserving self to the table. Or to simply allow him to sleep off his drunken stupor and wrap his food up for breakfast.

Either way, she also anticipated the irritation that would follow- regardless of the outcome.

But that irritation never arrived. The door remained untouched, all night, as did her food. At some point, waiting for Spirit became so unappetizing that she'd all but forgotten dinner and began surfing through the occasional news channel for any updates on the weather report, theorizing that the storm had worsened over time and left his car snowed in. She fell asleep that way, hunched over against the arm of the couch with her coat draped over her shoulders and the remote held loosely in one hand.

A knock on the door stirred her from her (uncomfortable) sleep. Morning had come, and upon recalling how her father had practically abandoned the memory of her last night, she debated strangling him. She opened the door with an exercised frown on her face, and prepared her lecture, but faltered quickly when the slight gleam of a badge caught her attention. The man identified himself as a police officer and politely requested entrance on account of a serious matter.

Naturally, she let the man in. Nervously offered him a cup of tea, of course, and settled on the couch. She waited. The man was the first to reluctantly speak, and what he said left a cold chill in the air. "...Maka Albarn. You are the daughter of Spirit Albarn. Is that correct?"

She nodded, and was anxious to get to the bulk of the problem, but refrained from pressing.

"...There have been some concerns with your father's behavior in the past. As for your relationship, we're unable to confirm anything from our given data. Even so, I'm afraid you may want to brace yourself for what you're about to hear." This man was obviously someone who wasn't an expert in terms of delivering bad news with a spoon full of sugar. His method of careful approach was based on formalities, but it was evident that he was trying, on some level, to connect with her.

She nodded. Through a slight gulp, she urged him to continue, "...Is...there a problem? ...Did papa do something stupid?"

"...You could say that." The hesitation was quite obvious. He expressed the same discomfort and continued, reluctantly, "...It was midnight when we received the phone call. Someone had passed by a wreck and determined that a man was still trapped in the vehicle. That he'd been snowed in... When we arrived at the scene of the accident, we found this." He fished a note out of his hand and passed it to her.

The chill had permeated and swallowed her entire body in a matter of minutes upon processing what the cop was trying to convey. She accepted the note, with somewhat shaky fingers, and smoothed it out with her fingertips. She looked down at the note, and felt her composure wither and crumble into the shape of her father's suicide.

Her father had made it very clear that he did not regret her in his letter. He regret his decisions. He regret Kami, if only for his inability to make her happy and hold onto what was intended to be a happy family. He regret the fact that his own daughter had been forced to dedicate a portion of her childhood to maintaining a home and a grown, alcoholic man who made the same mistakes over and over again. Secondly, he wanted her to sell the house, and use the money to afford an apartment of her own. He hinted towards the emancipation process and even provided some addresses on the back of the note.

Along with some advice, such as the general stay away from boys and never give up and such. He concluded by reminding her that she was stronger than anyone could possibly comprehend; that she'd be doubted in her lifetime, but he withheld immovable pride in her until the very end and more.

The note had brought tears to her eyes. But it had also brought an onslaught of obligations. A year following the tragedy, she'd settled in an apartment complex on the west side of the city and landed a job at Medusa's Cobra Cove, a diner with a venomous theme to it. The fifteen thousand dollars that her father had left her had begun to deplete fairly quickly on account of school expenses, clothes, and general living fees that she'd never dreamed of having to handle on her own so quickly. Medusa was quick to pull her aside and slide a job opportunity in her direction upon a personal recommendation from her landlord.

She wasn't doing it on her own, necessarily, but she was doing it. And she was getting by. The work was tough, obnoxious sometimes, fast-paced and such, but it was doable, and it conformed to her schedule.

Thankfully, she hadn't quit school. She'd fought tooth and nail to get her lifestyle to adhere to her want for an education; for opportunities in the far future, for a chance of living as opposed to surviving off of a monthly paycheck.

The dismissal bell served two general purposes for her. It was a compliment, on one hand, of her ability to have gotten through another day. Secondly, it was an alarm that urged her to rush down two blocks to her next job, which began in approximately forty-five minutes; the walk (run) there usually accounted for thirty minutes of that allotted time, unfortunately.

Either way, as she'd been able to do, successfully, for the past several months, she rushed into the door and clocked in, then greeted Medusa, then greeted any customers that'd seen her. After that she stole away into the kitchen, where Free, the head-chef, was always there to greet her.

"Hey-If you're gonna fly in here like a bat outta hell, be sure to give the customers a compliment or two. And don't forget to strut those skates or Medusa'll put you and me both on the menu."

She wasn't amused, but she agreed with him, "Got it." she took a seat and fastened both skates to her feet. A new, and tedious feature, but an obligation nonetheless. She gave herself a slight head-start after loading her apron-artillery with pens and straws and a notepad, and managed to evade slipping as she rolled out towards the tables.

Ragnarok, Medusa's son, naturally saw it fit to occupy himself on a table. When Ragnarok was present, work became more of a 'game' to him. And not really a game that Maka found herself eagerly participating in. It was more-so along the lines of his excuse to torment her and her inability to do anything about it in fear of 'harassing the boss's son'. He was aware of this advantage and utilized it. Often.

Work kicked off by avoiding being tripped, several times, as she passed his table with some uncertainty as she couldn't decide whether or not he was intent to order. And that, of course, begged the question of whether or not Medusa was aware of this or paying for it. She'd gotten reprimanded for his gluttony several times before.

But work was slow and her other tables' lack of needs compelled her to wait on Ragnarok and suffer through an insanely excessive order of pancakes, fries and soft drinks that Medusa had explicitly warned him against in the past and likely future when the bill becomes an issue.

It was almost as though he were doing this on purpose, actually, "Be sure to bring those pancakes out in one sitting, Ma-ka!" he jeered "I'll give you a tip if you slip!"

That was a lie. And she gave the order to the chef, whom retorted with tyrannical banter, "Be sure to give that fatso a real kick in the face, alright?" he was inadvertently referring to his own step-son.

She acknowledged his 'concerns' but that was never really enough for Free. He always seemed intent to beg a reaction out of her somehow, something or another to distract her from doing her job. He criticized her, "Hey, you showed up smelling like sweat. If you're going to jog to work, at least put some meat on your bones so the customers have something more...'meaty' to look at."

She bit her resentment in favor of waiting, patiently, and collecting the food that he'd concocted. She distributed it to the allotted table and couldn't fathom how such a good cook could be such a moronic piece of,

Ragnarok began his cries for attention, and food. "Maka...!"

She rolled over to his table, "Yes, Ragnarok?"

He loudly inquired the whereabouts of his food, to which she politely informed him that she'd check on it right away. Unfortunately that meant breathing the same air as that pig again, but some things were more avoidable than others.

As soon as she opened the door, Free practically slammed the order on a tray and pushed it into her waiting arms. She brought the buffet back to Ragnarok and set it on the table. She prepared to leave, until he requested that she organize the food neatly, in a way that'd be better 'suited to his taste'. But she was only able to humor him for a moment longer before another customer pulled her attention away in want of a straw.

Within the next hour or so, the door flew open and Medusa walked in with Crona practically hanging onto her hip. She passed the regulars a pleasant glance, before turning her attention to Maka, "Good to see you've taken to the skates. Wouldn't want to upset the customers, now would we?" The woman had a way of making even the most mundane of comments sound like a threat, "Let me guess..."

She turned towards Ragnarok, whom was scarfing down the last of his pancakes, "That idiot of a chef couldn't tell Ragnarok's appetite apart from a customer's and now we've strained our budget. Again. Isn't that a shame?"

A provocative chill rushed down the boy's spine, and he stopped eating long enough to look over at his mother with a sheepish smile. But before he could muster an explanation, she ordered Crona to go take a seat and wait. As was routine when it came to their family matters.

"Walk with me, Maka."

Maka obediently did just that, and greeted her politely before proceeding. This was ignored, but acknowledged pleasantly. She rolled into the kitchen alongside her.

"You," she referred to Free with hands on her hips and very thin patience, "couldn't tell a cow apart from a cobra if it were to bite you. Have you forgotten what I've said about feeding Ragnarok without my permission, or is there truly nothing between the space in your ears that would absorb that information. Well?"

Her foot was tapping, and she was in one of those moods that made him stop what he was doing and turn towards her with a tired look on his face. "It isn't my fault. Your slave didn't tell me it was Ragnarok!"

Maka resented that. But she remained quiet.

"Let's see who the slave is once you start replenishing the money we've lost. You can start with this," she unfolded a piece of paper and held it out to him. It was a list of chores that stretched across the length of the paper, and fell to the back. "Of course, these chores don't get you off kitchen duty so you'll just have to figure something out. Secondly, you'll be in charge of the reduction on Ragnarok's allowance, and he does become quite tedious when he doesn't get what he wants, so have fun managing his tantrum. Need I go on?"

He was visibly worn just thinking about the workload. Her mood was savagely incurable- But be it far from him to go down alone. "Well, if Maka had mentioned something about it, this wouldn't have happened! Protect her all you want, Medusa, but we agreed that staff shares the same responsibility to the diner as much as anyone else."

She pursed her lips and glanced at Maka, whom was more or less refraining from any type of defense for her own safety. And the sake of her job, as she couldn't deny her fault in the situation.

"You're right. I have just the job for you, Maka."

The administered punishment could have been worse, admittedly. But it wasn't her favorite job in the world. She was expected to uphold a stack of crates, boxes and a bag of trash while she skated down the block, to the dumpster around the corner. While it wasn't sinister, it was malicious all the same and required all of her effort in order to stay upright. Ragnarok wasn't present, which eliminated some element of embarrassment, but didn't really preserve her dignity from the fact that she was roller skating behind the restaurant in a pink apron, acting as a human trash-heap.

When she reached the dumpster, she managed to prop it open without slipping and dump the first crate inside. The second crate was a bit tougher as it required a little more upper-body strength (dishes that were beyond cleansing, worn out skates, blades beyond repair, etc.) but she managed to heave it in. The trash bag was easier, with the exception of the fluids that dripped from the bottom, indicating some sort of spill. And finally, all that was left in her arms was a nascent bruise or two from the weight and a box. This box came from Free, but Medusa had instructed her to throw out any and all excessive trash. She tossed it away.

Upon returning to the restaurant, Medusa gave her the go-ahead to return home, as closing up was a chore left for the family (and a punishment for Ragnarok, whom would be in charge of dishes) and wished her well. Maka bid them goodbye and hung up her apron, and her skates. Walking on actual shoes afterwards was always a bit off-putting but she did appreciate it.

On her way home, rain began to break the cloud barrier, as forewarned by the weather station, but the chance of rain had been dismissed by most people (including herself) because it hadn't seemed plausible after the miniature drought the city had experienced. Either way, she found herself walking faster in her efforts to avoid it. Except halfway home, she came to the realization that her landlord would most likely be stopping by in want of rent-

Not that she hadn't been paying it. Because she had been, and it'd only been late on one or two occasions in which work was slow or something or another came up on account of school, or food, or clothes. But her guilt manifested quickly, knowing she wouldn't be receiving her paycheck for another week after the diner had faced a temporary shut-down when a health inspector accused Medusa of harboring live snakes in her facility without authorization. Though no snakes came up, the publication did start a bit of an uproar. With ups and downsides. But the bottom line was the fact that her check would be delayed and thereby so would rent.

Upon hitting the door, she took a deep breath and prepared to phone up her landlord,

...But it appeared that she'd been beaten to it. Blair was stretched out across the sofa, quite comfortably, occupying herself with her nails. She perked up when Maka hit the door, "Maka~! So nice to see you. How are you? Didn't you take an umbrella with you, silly?" She jumped up and hugged her, inadvertently drawing some unnecessary attention to her chest as the height difference caused some suffocation.

The hug didn't last long, though, because Maka was the first to pull away and manage with some shame, "Look, Blair, there's something I need to..."

"Don't get all business-business on me now..! Life's too short for that- Here, take a seat." she urged her onto the couch beside her and crossed her legs, "Now tell me all about your boyfriend."

She was met with immediate confusion as Maka couldn't really recall ever having one, "Boy...frie-?"

"Oh, you still don't have one? Well when you do get one, be sure that I'm the first person you tell, alright? I don't want to miss a second of young love!" She wrapped her arm around her tenant and stared off into imaginable space.

"Actually, Blair, that's not-"

"That reminds me. Hate to be a scrooge and all but you do have your rent, right~?"

She began before she could be interrupted again, "That's what I've been meaning to tell you. My check is stuck at the moment because Medusa's restaurant got shut down for a week, so things have been slow..."

"Slow?" She frowned, but didn't seem too upset. "That's really a shame, Maka. But..."

A moment of silence passed between them. Blair's smile returned instantaneously and she gripped Maka around the waste, "You can repay me by letting me kick it here for a while, can't you~?"

The request was odd, but not uncommon. "...Again? I mean, sure, but what's wrong with-"

"Oh, not much. Let's just say a boa and I had a bit of a falling out and he knows where I live, so until this whole little mess blows over, let's shack up and call it square; fair?"

She couldn't argue with that logic. "...Sure."

"Thank you!" Blair continued to squeeze the remainder of life out of Maka, "Your skin is so callous over here," she referred to her arms, "Let's get you a nice, hot, bubble-bath!"

The night persisted with Blair taking the lead and drawing a bath. As expected of her, it was more of an excuse to play with bubbles. She even settled into the bath tub alongside Maka at some point- causing much upset in the color in Maka's face, but it all-in-all amounted to a fairly productive night. Even if rent were a bit late, she wouldn't be evicted any time soon and Blair got the 'girls night in' that she'd been pining for.